


3-15

by Titch360



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titch360/pseuds/Titch360
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beware the Ides of March</p>
            </blockquote>





	3-15

3/15

 

“ _Beware the Ides of March!”_

Dick’s disguised voice came from the top to the cave’s stairs, drawing a small half-chuckle from Bruce and a groan from Damian.  Dick made his way to the bottom of the stairs, hunching over and crooking a finger at Bruce, attempting to imitate a posture to match the old crone-style voice he had used for his introduction.

Bruce, not looking up from the computer, called over his shoulder, “Damian, your brother has arrived saying sooth.”

Damian, not looking up from working on his motorcycle, replied, “Yeah?  Well, whose fault is that?”

Bruce turned his head a bit, puzzled at the response, “That Dick’s here, or that he’s soothsaying?”

Damian smirked as he replied, “That he’s my brother.”

Dick straightened up, looking hurt.  “Ouch, Little D.  Just…Ouch.”

Bruce shook his head at the repartee, wondering what could have caused Dick to pull out that little tidbit of Shakespeare, other than the date of March 15th.  He turned back to the computer to finish his research, while Damian returned to the suspension on his R-Cycle.

Dick approached the middle space between his family members, looking back and forth between them, bewildered at the lack of reaction.  “Really?  Nothing?  That’s it?”

“Nope, sorry Grayson,” Damian said in a bored tone.

“Come on, you two need to get out of this cave.  It’s a beautiful Sunday outside.  Let’s go, we have plans.”

Bruce finally looked up as he closed his file, hesitating while deciding if he should open another file.  “…And, did you bother to let us know about these plans in advance?”

Dick grimaced, “Of course not, you would have said ‘no’.”

“Go with that instinct, Grayson,” Damian mumbled from behind his bike, unheard by the others.

Feeling he was losing, Dick nevertheless plowed on, “Come on, I got us tickets to a play.”

The large smile on Dick’s face quickly faltered when both Bruce and Damian stood up and shouted, “No!”

Dick had expected some resistance, but not the level of vehemence his announcement had garnered.  He looked askance at Bruce, but it was Damian who stalked forward to confront the man.  “The last play you dragged us to was terrible!  The songs in the musical were insipid and the acting was atrocious.”

“Maybe, but I seem to remember you being quite taken with the young performer who played the daughter,” Dick replied slyly as he ruffled Damian’s hair.

Bruce had to hide a grin as Damian sputtered and turned to his father for support.  “Dick, you do have terrible taste in musicals.”

Dick pouted, then brightened when he said, “That’s okay, because this isn’t a musical.  You guys will like it, it’s Shakespeare.”

Damian cocked his head, reminding Bruce of the same mannerism Dick used so often as a boy.  Damian asked, “Shakespeare?”

Feeling he was starting to win at least one of them over, Dick turned to his little brother and said, “Yes, Shakespeare.  I know for a fact you like Shakespeare.  Here Titus!”  The dog bounded up and nuzzled the outstretched hand before sitting at Damian’s side.  “I believe that proves my point.”

Warming to the idea, Damian asked, “Which play?”

_Got you now._   Dick smiled and said, “The only one that could possibly be playing today, of course: Julius Caesar.”

Damian looked up at Bruce while Bruce looked at Dick.  Bruce said, “That would count for our family public appearance, and it would be nice to get out of the cave for a while.”

Dick beamed at the agreement, but Bruce was more interested in the small grin Damian let escape.  Bruce shrugged at Dick and said, “Lead on, McDuff.”

Dick scampered up the stairs in a way he hadn’t since he was Damian’s age.  Bruce made to follow him when Damian placed a hand on his elbow and asked softly, “Can we take the truck, Father?”

Bruce smiled down at his son and placed his arm around his shoulder, answering gently, “Of course, son.”

Damian smiled softly and followed Dick up the stairs.  _Wow,_ Bruce thought, _I like his attitude lately.  My boys may finally get along.  A year ago, I would have thought his comments were meant to be mean.  Today, it sounded more like a family._

As he came into the entryway, Damian handed him a set of keys while Dick pleaded with Alfred to join them in the afternoon’s activities.  Alfred sighed as he agreed to join them, only really acquiescing after Dick told him he already purchased a ticket for the old butler.

Bruce took the keys and made for the door before stopping.  “Wait, we’re going to the theater.  We should change into something a little more appropriate, right?”

Dick looked at his father and brother appraisingly before saying, “No, for this matinee, I think you are dressed just right.”  Both were dressed quite casually, in almost matching ensembles of polo shirts and khakis.  _A little too formal for working in the cave, but just right for what I have in mind._

“Shall I pull the car around, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked as they approached the door.

“No, Alfred.  There has been a request to take the truck.  We haven’t taken it out in a while, and today is just as good a day as any.”  _Especially if we all can go together, and I get to see Damian’s happy look again._

“…Ah.  I see, sir.  So, I assume you will be driving?”  Alfred looked uncomfortable.  His only experience with the large vehicle had resulted in a sprained ankle upon exiting and stumbling.  He had since avoided trips in it.

Bruce shook his head and tossed the keys to Dick.  “No, Alfred.  This is Dick’s trip.  He knows where we’re going, it’s only fitting that he drive.”

“You never let _me_ drive it,” Damian complained as they walked down the steps and towards the vehicle.

Bruce rolled his eyes, “That’s because you’re _eleven_.  You’re not old enough yet.”

Damian looked down and mumbled, loud enough for Bruce to hear, “I wouldn’t take it on the roads, just around the grounds a bit.  I already know how to drive.”

Bruce shot him a look that said _not this again, not now_ , which quieted the boy. 

Dick looked surprised, “You’re going to let me drive your overgrown Tonka?”

Damian looked up, confused, and asked, “What’s a Tonka?  I speak six languages fluently, and several others a little less than fluently, and I don’t recognize that word.”

Dick smirked as he got behind the wheel, looking in wonder at the size of the dashboard in front of him.  Damian opened the front passenger door to get in, only to have Alfred step in front of the boy and hoist himself into the seat, saying, “Thank you, young sir; that was quite nice of you.”

Damian opened his mouth to say something less than nice when he caught identical looks coming from both Bruce and Dick.  He instead changed his comment to a grumbled ‘you’re welcome’ before closing the door and climbing into the back next to Bruce.  Bruce patted Damian on the knee, proud that the boy had held his tongue.

Still a bit frustrated, Damian instead turned his comments to Dick.  “Well, Grayson?  Are we going or what?”

Dick smiled, purposefully misunderstanding Damian’s comment.  “We’re on our way.  I’m glad you’re excited.”

Damian’s flustered response was drowned out as the engine turned over.

Thirty minutes later, Dick pulled into a parking spot.  Bruce looked around and asked, “Uh…Dick?  Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

Damian spoke up, “Yeah, where’s the theater?”

Dick smiled back at his family before answering happily, “This is it!”

“This is a park, Grayson,” Damian deadpanned.

As they got out and followed him, Dick said, “Alfred, back me up on this.  Shakespeare’s original plays were all performed in open air theaters, right?”

The butler nodded, “I wasn’t there for the original performances, but that is correct, Master Dick.”

“Well, that’s what this is.  In an effort to preserve a sense of history: Shakespeare in the Park!”

Damian scoffed, “Come on, Grayson.  You can’t be serious.”

Bruce placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder and said, “No, Damian, I’ve heard of that before.  I actually saw one once in Rome; it was pretty good.”

They walked for a minute before Bruce noticed that Damian was no longer at his side.  Looking around, he saw that his son had stopped and was looking at a sign.  Bruce turned to go back for his boy when Damian’s voice rang out loud and clear, startling several people walking nearby, “GRAYSON!”

As the others came to his side, Damian pointed to the sign.  “Is _this_ what we are here for?”

Dick nodded, Damian continued, “You knew about this, and you didn’t tell us?”

Dick cringed, then nodded again.  Bruce asked, “What’s the problem, son?  It says ‘Shakespeare in the Park presents Julius Caesar.”

Damian pointed lower on the sign and read out loud, “…’presented by the Gotham Youth Conservatory.’  He brought us to _children’s_ theater, father!”

Defending himself, Dick pointed even lower on the sign, “Yes, I did.  Let me show you why.”

Bruce looked at where Dick was pointing and read out loud, “’Funded in part by a generous grant from the Wayne Foundation.’  Really?  When did I do that?”

Grumbling, Damian said, “Shakespeare in the Park, children’s theater, why not just invite _Drake_ while you’re at it?”

Dick ran a nervous hand through his hair and said quietly, “Umm…He’s holding our seats.”

As Damian’s jaw was being picked up off the ground, Dick said, “Come on, you like Shakespeare, at least.”

Damian interrupted, “When it’s the Royal Shakespeare Company performing, maybe.  Not when it’s Mrs. Johnson’s third grade class.”

Bruce snickered at that and led his sons towards the amphitheater.  “Damian, give it a chance.  Dick, you could have at least told me it was a Foundation event.”

Dick replied, “It’s not really an event, just something Timmy felt would be a good cause to throw some of the Foundation’s philanthropy funds at.”

Tim waved as he saw Dick approach, then blushed when he saw the whole family in tow.  Dick gave his second youngest brother a big hug and whispered, “I told you I’d get them here.”

Bruce came next and gave the teen a smaller, but no less heartfelt, hug as he whispered, “Glad to see you doing good work with the Foundation.”

Alfred consented to a small hug and a warm smile in greeting.

Damian then approached and Tim, forgetting just who was approaching, moved to give the youth a hug.  Damian’s eyes grew wide as Tim got closer.  Tim saw the look and hesitated.  _The last time I saw that look, he was being attacked by an entire gang.  Is that what he thinks I’m doing?_   Tim quickly dropped his arms and settled for an awkward pat on the boy’s shoulder.  Damian still looked uncomfortable as he took a seat between Alfred and his father.  Dick sat between Bruce and Tim.

As they waited for the performance to start, Damian grumbled, “Why didn’t you invite Todd, and make it complete?”

Dick leaned forward and said, “I tried, but he’s out of town.  I’ll let him know you wanted to see him the next time we talk.”

Damian looked scandalized, “You will do no such thing, Grayson.”

Ignoring Damian, Bruce leaned over to Dick and asked, “How is Jason doing lately?”

Dick heard the pain in his father’s voice, “He’s doing…okay, I guess.  No recent injuries, his part of town has been quiet.  He is getting along, he’s made a place for himself.”

Bruce shook his head, “He doesn’t have to stay away.  He’s always been welcome at home.  Even if you don’t tell him about Damian, tell him that I would like to get together, if he wants.  I’ll take him for lunch wherever he wants to meet me, if he’s willing.  That shouldn’t be too controversial, right?”

Dick could hear the pain in Bruce’s voice.  “I’m going to try to see him next weekend.  He’s in Boston for a few days right now.”

Bruce looked surprised, “Boston?  What’s he doing there?”

Dick smiled, “I got him tickets to the Dropkick Murphy’s St. Patrick’s Day show at Fenway Park.  He’s a fan, and he has always wanted to see the St. Patrick’s Day show.  I guess the band puts on a big show for the holiday.”

Bruce thought ‘ _what’s a Dropkick Murphy’_ as the director of the acting company took the stage to introduce the play.  Polite applause broke out from the assembled parents as the curtain was retracted upon the street scene announcing Caesar’s triumphant return to Rome.

At the end of Act 1, Damian turned to Alfred and whispered loudly, “What the hell was that?  I’ve read all of Shakespeare’s works and seen this play several times.  Where did they get the script?”

Alfred, only a little less flustered than Damian, replied, “It must be a new translation.  I agree, the colloquialisms are a bit off-putting, but the acting so far isn’t too terrible.”

Bruce put an arm around Damian, forestalling his next outburst by thinking ahead and saying, “You’re not sitting and waiting in the truck.  I happen to agree with both of you, but we are here to support the arts, and Tim.”

Damian asked, “Is this a charity play, to demonstrate how much more funding the program needs?”

Bruce snorted a laugh, then caught himself as he got a glare from the parents sitting in front of him.  He replied, “Why don’t you try out for the school play, see how hard it is to get up in front of people and perform?”

Damian rolled his eyes, “Tt.  I don’t call myself a concert-level musician just to brag, you know.  Mother had me performing piano concerts on stage when I was five.  I had to learn to get over my nerves, and how to perform with precision, from the moment I could walk.”

Bruce looked impressed as he thought _maybe Talia was able to do something good, after all._   “Really? That young?  What do you mean, precision?”

Damian looked down and spoke softly at the memory.  “Every time I made a mistake in concert, I paid for it with a timed mile run.  The night of my first performance, I ran fifteen miles.”

Bruce cringed, then asked, “How many songs did you play?”

Damian replied, “Fifteen.”

Bruce looked astonished, “Only one mistake per song, at five years old?  That’s not too bad.”

“When I was six, I had to give another concert, this time with thirty songs, all played from memory.  I didn’t have to run after that concert.”

The group was silent for a minute, until Dick spoke up to lighten the mood, “So, that’s a ‘no’ to the school play, then?”

Damian huffed, “Yes, that’s a ‘no’.  Besides, they’re doing a musical this year.  I…I can’t do that.”

Dick was confused, “Wait, we all have seen you play.  Why can’t you do a musical?”

Damian looked at his shoes as he mumbled, “…Because I can’t sing.”

All four men looked at the boy in amazement before Bruce burst out laughing.  Damian glared at him as Bruce pulled his son tight into his side and said, “Now I know you’re my son.  Lack of singing talent is a Wayne family trait.  You should have heard your grandfather butcher Christmas carols.”

Alfred spoke up, “Yes, young Master.  I used to ask for the holidays off just so I didn’t have to hear it.”

Dick reached over and patted Damian on the back and said, “Even if it is a musical, surely there has to be a non-singing role you can do?”

Damian looked uncomfortable as he mumbled, “…well, I can’t dance, either.”

Tim finally spoke up and said, “It sounds to me like you already tried out and were turned down.  We all went to the same school, we know how they work.”

Damian flushed a deep red as Tim hit the nail on the head.  When Damian didn’t reply, Bruce knelt in front of his son and placed his hands on the boy’s slight shoulders.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Damian tried to look away, but Bruce wouldn’t let him.  He whispered, “I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me.  I failed; it’s embarrassing.”

“It’s okay, son…”

Damian’s voice grew angry as he interrupted, “I didn’t want to be in the stupid play, anyways.”

_Then why did you even try out,_ Bruce thought to himself, taking his seat again.

They were silent for the duration of the second act.  Damian had stopped paying attention, instead thinking about how he didn’t want to talk about the school play, even though he knew more questions were coming.

At the end of the second act, Damian asked Tim, “Drake, how did you know?”

Tim gave an understanding smile and said, “Is Mrs. Miller still the drama coach?”  Damian nodded.  “That sounds a lot like the same denial I got the first time I tried out for the school play.  She was right, of course.  I can’t sing or dance, either.  I would have been terrible in ‘Grease’.  What was your play?”

“Guys and Dolls,” the boy replied, not realizing he was having a civil conversation with Tim.  “I thought I could be a good Nicely Nicely Johnson.”

Dick spoke up, “Nicely Nicely?  Even in a student production, you’re too skinny for the part.  I can see you more in a Sky Masterson role.”

Alfred agreed, nodding, “Master Dick should know, he made quite the Nathan Detroit in his school play debut.”

Damian looked shocked.  Dick defended himself by saying, “I can’t help it if I’m the only person in this family who can sing.”

Any further comment was cut off as Damian hushed his family.  “Quiet everyone, it’s the third act.  They can’t screw this one up.”  Damian had been quite put off by the boy playing Caesar, and was only too happy to see him hacked to mock-death.

Damian had to admit, as bad as the rest of the play had been so far, the third act was done to his satisfaction.  As the curtain fell, Damian turned to Alfred and said, “I think they’re getting better.”

Alfred smiled and said, “I’m still not overly enthused with the modernized script, but I would have to agree, Master Damian.”  Dick smiled as he overheard what, for them, was glowing praise.

The fourth and fifth acts passed with a return to mediocrity.  After the final curtain fell and the cast took their extended bows, which Damian felt garnered too much applause for the quality of the performance, the director invited Tim up to the stage to say a few words about the Wayne Foundation’s involvement with the theater company.  As the current Chief Operating Officer of the Wayne Foundation, Tim Drake was directly involved in how the Foundation spent it’s charity dollars.  He had been hoping that the director would forget about the fact that he had mentioned in his meetings with her that he was interested in attending the performance.  As he hadn’t been planning on giving a speech, he hadn’t prepared one.  Tim had a great mind for business, but this sort of on-the-fly improvisation was not his specialty.

Sensing that his son was in distress as he watched the teen approach the stage, Bruce followed him, standing off to the side of the stage while Tim mounted the stairs and shook the director’s hand.  Tim fumbled for words to explain the Foundation’s involvement with the program as something more than a tax deduction when he spotted Bruce standing next to the stage.  Seeing Bruce’s supportive gaze gave Tim the confidence to finish his last few remarks about how programs such as this one were good for the future of Gotham’s youth before calling Bruce to the stage to say a few words.

Bruce, far more practiced in what Tim had just been thrown into, gave a much smoother speech.  He praised the obvious hard work of the actors and the support of the parents.  He then told a short personal tale of how his mother had been a patron of the arts, and how proud he was of being able to continue her legacy through the Foundation Grants.  It was enough to earn a small round of applause as the two waved and left the stage.

Tim gave a deep sigh as they walked back to the rest of the family.  He whispered to Bruce, “Thank you.  I told the director it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to do that.  I guess she didn’t get the message.”

Bruce threw an arm around Tim’s shoulder lightly, gently shaking his adoptive son, “I tell people that all the time, and look how many speeches I have to give.  Welcome to the world of high society.  These people don’t understand that real charity isn’t being seen giving the big check, but putting the big check to good use.  Unfortunately, you will have to do a lot more of these speeches, so long as you are the new face of the Foundation.  It might be a good idea to come up with a generic speech that can be easily modified to fit different situations.  That way, you will always have a little something in your hip pocket the next time someone shoves a microphone in your face and demands a few gracious words.”

Tim smiled, relaxing now that he was off stage, “You know, that’s a good idea.  I’ll have to put something together.”

Bruce returned the smile.  “Let me know when you do, I’ll look it over for you.”

They returned to the general area of their seats, and Bruce looked around, frowning.  “Where’s Damian?”

Alfred glanced in the direction of the parking lot and said, “The young Master has chosen to see about procuring a weapon this afternoon.”

“ _WHAT?”_ Bruce exclaimed.

Dick held up his hands, trying to calm his father.  “It’s okay, Bruce, calm down.  That’s not what he meant.  He’s waiting by the truck.”

“…And the weapon?”

Dick smiled, “He called ‘shotgun’ for the ride home.”

Bruce sighed in a world-weary way, “Alfred, is there any reason you like raising my blood pressure?”

The butler smirked in a knowing manner, “Whatever do you mean, Master Bruce?”

Dick walked Tim to his car while Bruce and Alfred returned to the truck, finding Damian exactly where Dick said he would be.  The boy clung to the door handle, all but daring the old butler to try to take the front seat again.  However, with two pairs of eyes set to “Bat-glare”, Damian quickly shuffled back to the rear door, grumbling to himself.  It was all academic at this point, as Dick still had the keys to the locked truck, and was currently giving Tim a goodbye hug, out of range of the locking remote key fob.

Just to mess with Damian, Dick waited until he was standing right next to the driver’s door before pushing the button to unlock the doors.  As they drove back to the manor, a lively, if three-sided, conversation took place concerning Tim’s future as the face of the Wayne Foundation.  It was Damian’s favorite topic to bash, yet he was strangely silent for the half-hour drive.

The second they reached the manor, Damian ran off to his room, determined not to be seen again until dinner.  Dick and Bruce watched him scamper off, hearing his door slam a very short time after he was out of sight. 

Alfred stopped between Dick and Bruce, standing at the foot of the stairs, and said, “My word.  What do you suppose brought that on?”

Bruce shook his head, “Wish I knew.  Dick?”

The eldest son sighed, “You want me to check it out, or do you want to do it?”

“Give him a minute, then we can tag-team it, I guess.”  Bruce walked off towards his study as Dick followed Alfred to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, Bruce entered his son’s room without knocking.  He found Damian sitting at his desk, sketching.  Damian gave no indication that he heard Bruce enter, but Bruce knew better than to think that Damian didn’t know he was there.  He continued drawing as Bruce sat down on the edge of the bed behind the boy.

A full two minutes later, without looking up from his drawing, Damian spoke, barely more than a whisper.  “I expected Grayson about five minutes ago.  Did you draw the short straw?”

A small smile split the elder’s lips.  “As a matter of fact, I wanted to come up.  I always have time for you, son.”

“We both know that’s not true, but that’s not an argument we need to have right now.”

Bruce was genuinely hurt.  _How am I still so bad at parenting, after four kids?_   Bruce took a deep breath before responding, “Maybe I’m not around enough, but how did that come up through today’s events?”

Damian put down his pencil and looked up at the wall in front of him.  “Did you really care that I didn’t get a part in the school play?  If I had gotten a part, would you have come to watch it?”

Bruce was taken aback.  _Where did this come from?_   “Damian, of course I care.  Okay, I don’t care about the play itself, but I care if you wanted to be in the play.  If that would have made you happy, then I would have supported you, because I want you to be happy.  As for seeing it, not even the Joker could have kept me away.”

Bruce heard Damian’s breath hitch as he prepared his next comment.  “If I had gotten a part, and the play was terrible, like today’s play, would you still have watched it, the way we did today?”

“Of course, Damian, because I wouldn’t be there supporting the arts.  I- _We_ would be there to support you.  Don’t think for a second that Dick wouldn’t be there, in the front row, singing along.”  Bruce was starting to get an idea what was bothering his son.  _I haven’t done enough to support him.  He’s right, I support the others far more than I do him, but, he’s never shown any interest in doing any of the extra activities the others did, where I could show my support.  He wanted to create distance, so I would have to make the extra effort to bridge the gap and show him that he is just as important to me, but I let him have his distance, playing into his fears that he is less important to me.  Boy, do I have a long way to go.  Leave it to my own flesh and blood to be the most difficult one to understand._

Damian took the subtle out Bruce had unwittingly left dangling in front of the boy.  “Let me guess, he’s waiting in the hall, with either his ear to the door or his eye to the keyhole.”

Bruce got up, walked up behind Damian, and leaned down, placing his chin on his son’s head while his arms wrapped around the child’s shoulders.  To say Damian was surprised would be an understatement.  He flinched so hard at the unexpected contact that Bruce bit his tongue.  “Shhh…I’m sorry, son.  How can I show you that you are more important to me than anything?  My children are everything to me, all of you.  How can I prove that to you?  Help me, son.”

Damian didn’t respond, but Bruce felt two tears splatter on his forearms.  For a second, he wondered if they were his or Damian’s.  Then, he felt his son’s shoulders quivering and heard a slight sniff.  He tightened his grip on the boy and said, “I’ll show you, somehow.  I love you, and I want you to be happy.  We’re not going to throw you away, or lock you away, like you seem to still think will happen.  I want to spend every day of the rest of my life proving that you are not the embarrassment you seemed to think you were earlier.”

They were quiet for several more minutes, Bruce unwilling to let his son go.  When they had both calmed somewhat, Bruce finally looked down at the drawing Damian had been so intent on when he had walked in.  Two birds soared low over a mountain lake in exacting detail.  Bruce had to comment on his interpretation of the drawing.  “Damian, that drawing is amazing.  Did you just start that when we got home?”

Damian, still not in the mood to talk, just nodded.

Bruce was shocked at the skilled work, completed in such a short time.  “Forget the school play, you should be teaching the art class, with talent like that.  I have to ask, though: Do you realize what you drew?”

Damian whispered, his voice a bit hoarse and still thick with emotion, “Birds.”

“No.  Well, yes, but specifically.  That one on the left is obviously a Robin.”

“Yeah, and the other one’s a duck.  So what?”

Bruce grinned, “That’s not just a duck, Damian.  That’s a _Drake_ , wouldn’t you say?”

Damian leaned forward, examining his drawing again, “Oh, God.  Grayson can never see this.  A Robin and a Drake, flying together.  He’ll wear out the printer in your office making copies.  He’ll post it to Facebook for the whole world to see.  He’ll put it on a t-shirt and wear it every day.  He’ll…”

“Calm down, Damian.  He hasn’t seen it yet…”

The boy panicked, “Like you said, not yet.   But…he’s waiting in the hall, isn’t he?  Here, do something with this.  Oh God, this never happened!”  He shoved the drawing at Bruce and made to hide his head in his arms on his desk.

Bruce took the drawing, picturing it framed and hanging in his study.  He would have to get Alfred to take care of that tonight while they were on patrol.  “Damian, this is nothing to be embarrassed about.  Come on, I’ll put this somewhere where it deserves to be.  I bet, if you’re quiet enough, you can rip that door open while Dick is still trying to listen to us and give him a good shock.  That ought to make you feel a bit better.”

Damian grinned, and put on his best League of Assassins tiptoe to the door.  Neither Wayne was disappointed in the result, as the door flew open and Dick went sprawling to the floor at Damian’s feet.  Bruce stepped over his eldest son as he lay on the floor.  Damian walked to his bathroom to wash his face before returning to his brother for the cuddling he had expected when Bruce first walked in. 

While he was gone, Dick stopped Bruce and asked what the trouble was.  Bruce replied truthfully, “Just a little temporary loss of self-confidence.  From his point of view, I support you and Tim far more than I do him.  I need to do a better job of showing him that he is just as important as you two.”

Dick gave a small smile and put a hand on Bruce’s elbow.  “But he isn’t as important as me and Tim.  He is far more important.  He’ll see that, someday.  I’ll help you show him, if you need the help.”

“Thanks, chum.  I will definitely take you up on that.”

Bruce walked out of the room to inform Alfred of the new addition to his study as Dick tackled Damian in a hug the second the boy exited the bathroom.  Damian’s flustered cry of “Grayson!” was muffled as the child was squeezed to the man’s chest.

_Later_

After an extended cuddle and an excellent dinner, Batman and Robin left for a special patrol.  Batman had shaken down an informant the night before and found out about a secret meeting for two of Gotham’s major players.  The informant could only confirm the identity of one of the players, but the opportunity to capture Two-Face was too good to pass up.  Nightwing and Red Robin had left on their own patrols, each claiming they had their own leads to follow for their own collars that night, so Batman and Robin made their way to the rendezvous point for the meeting alone.  The meeting point was a warehouse on the northern expansion of the Gotham Docks, close enough to the water to get a whiff of the stench of rotting fish, but far enough away for trucks and other roadway vehicles to be the preferred form of transportation.

As they drove, the radio crackled into life.  Nightwing made himself heard from halfway across town.  “Hey, Batman.  Since we both are following separate leads given to us by informants, how about a little bet?”

A second crackle sounded over the radio.  Red Robin spoke up, “I’m following an informant lead, too.  Count me in.”

Robin snorted and mumbled, “Figures.”

Batman shook his head before keying his radio.  “What did you have in mind, Nightwing?”

“Whoever captures their mark first tonight, the other two have to treat him to dinner.  Let’s see who has the best informant.”

Robin sat forward in his seat, “In case you forgot, there are _four_ of us here.”

Batman heard the slight indignation in Robin’s voice and was reminded again of his early evening emotional outburst.

Red Robin was speaking again, “Okay, there are four of us here, but how are you going to treat Batman to dinner if he wins?”

Batman said softly, “… _When_ I win.”  Nightwing chuckled over the radio.

“He has a point, Robin.  Besides, do you have an informant who gave you a tip on where to find a bad guy tonight?” Nightwing asked.

Robin thought hard.  “I _can_ cook, if it comes to it.  You might be surprised at what I could come up with.”

Nightwing asked again, “Can you come up with an informant with a tip for tonight?”

“Well…No.”

Red Robin spoke up, “That’s why we’re counting you in with Batman.  If Batman wins…”

“… _When_ I win.”

“…Then we’ll treat you to dinner, too.”

The radio was silent as Robin considered the proposition.  “…That’s acceptable.”

Batman said, “I guess we’re in.  Winner will be determined by the time stamp on the official arrest report.”  Nightwing and Red Robin agreed, and the radio went silent.

Batman looked over at Robin and said, “Don’t worry, we can win this easily.  They can’t really compete when the two of us work together.”  Robin gave a small smile, but didn’t say anything.

Fifteen minutes later, the Batmobile pulled in to a secluded space along the docks.  Batman and Robin made their way to the warehouse, where Batman pulled Robin off to the side of the building to wait in an overgrown lot.

“Batman, what are we doing here?  The informant described this building perfectly, let’s go get Two-Face so we can rub it in Nightwing and Red Robin’s faces.”

Batman smirked under his cowl.  “The informant also said to wait until both parties were here for a bigger score.  Just think of it this way, the more we can get off the streets tonight, the less there is to do the rest of the week.  Who knows, this may even qualify us for a night off this week.”

Robin turned to Batman, a look of astonishment on his face.  “…And what exactly would we do with a night off?”

“I’m sure we could find something.”

“Like what?”

Batman thought for a second before replying, “We could use the extra time to have a very large and expensive dinner on Nightwing and Red Robin, for one.”

Robin smiled at the thought while pulling out his binoculars.  He swept the back of the building for any signs of movement, while Batman did the same for the front.

Becoming impatient, Robin asked, “Did your informant say when this meet is supposed to take place?”

“He just said it would be worth the wait, not how long the wait would be.”

Robin sighed, sitting back to try to find a way to keep from losing his cool.

Fifteen minutes later, Batman nudged the boy, who was snoring lightly while leaning against the larger vigilante.  “Robin, wake up.  We have company.”

The child snapped awake, embarrassed to have fallen asleep on a stakeout.  “Huh?  They’re here?  Let’s get them.”

“Hold on.  I said we had company, but not exactly who I was expecting.”

Robin lifted his binoculars to his face again and spotted the shadowy figure Batman was talking about.  Nightwing was slinking towards the warehouse, sticking to the shadows in a way that could have only been learned from the Bat, and only spotted by someone trained by the Bat.

Batman touched the side of his cowl, activating his radio.  “Nightwing, what are you doing?”

The eldest son stopped in a shadow to activate his own radio.  “Sorry, Batman.  Can’t talk now, I’m about to win our bet.”  He shut off the radio.

Batman shook his head and pulled out a batarang.  Robin watched nervously as the light glinted dangerously off the sharpened edge of the weapon.  “Batman, it’s just a silly bet.  It’s not worth…NO!”

Batman hurled the razor-sharp weapon with all his might.  Robin lost sight of it almost instantly as it went in and out of the dim streetlights surrounding the lot.  Mentally counting down and watching his older brother, he was expecting a strangled shout and a spray of blood.  Instead, in the distance, Nightwing stopped suddenly, one foot still in the air.  Robin shoved his binoculars to his face again to survey the scene.

The sharpened weapon was embedded in the ground, mere inches in front of Nightwing’s left foot.  To his credit, the vigilante made no noise or sharp movements that may have given away his position at the sneak attack.  He looked around, then down at the batarang, then back up again, this time right at the hiding place of the dynamic duo.  The former circus acrobat picked up the weapon and silently ran off to his right.

Batman turned to Robin and said, “I’m sorry, you were saying something?”  Robin shook his head, looking uptight and nervous.  _If that’s his warning for his favorite son, what would he do to me?_   Batman gave a nearly indistinguishable smile and said, “Keep watching the rear, Robin.  I’ve got the front.”

A minute later, Nightwing silently kneeled next to Batman.  He approached unannounced, yet the dynamic duo knew he was approaching.  Without looking at his caped and cowled father, Nightwing handed the batarang back and whispered, “I think you dropped this.”

“Mm.” was the only reply Batman gave as he continued to observe the warehouse.

Unperturbed, Nightwing continued.  “We really should get some new informants.”

“ _You_ should start cultivating your own contacts, instead of using mine all the time.  You’ve been doing this long enough, you should have a few of your own informants by now.”  Batman observed, still not taking his eyes off the warehouse.  “And, by the way, don’t ever turn your radio off on me like that again.  I don’t care how old you are, you’re still young enough to put over my knee.”

Nightwing leaned in close to the side of the cowl, his lips mere millimeters from the material, and breathed, “Yes, Alfred.”

Outside of the fatherly chat, Robin was spotting his own interloper approaching the rear of the building.  Batman and Nightwing turned towards the youth when he was overheard saying, “…Oh, for the love of…” before taking out his own batarang and launching it into the night. 

Batman and Nightwing were shocked at the little Bat’s action, especially when they looked through their binoculars and saw Red Robin approaching the rear of the warehouse.  Batman couldn’t see the projectile, but didn’t miss when Red Robin’s head snapped back as if it were struck by, say, a flying, sharpened steel, bat shape, thrown by a young vigilante whose days in the field would be reduced by one week for each stitch Red Robin would require to fix the injuries he had just sustained.

Stunned silence met Robin as he turned to face the older crime fighters.  “Explain yourself,” Batman growled at his son, who was just starting to realize that his actions were not going to be met with the same reaction as Batman’s own had.

Before he could fumble out an answer to his incensed father, Red Robin snuck up to the group, rubbing his neck.  “You could have just used the radio to get my attention, Batman.”

Momentarily distracted by the appearance of his third son, Batman turned to the teen hero and assessed his condition.  Expecting lacerations and blood, Batman was surprised to find Red Robin in perfect health.  “What…?  You’re not bleeding anywhere?  How’s your head?”

Red Robin looked confused.  “Well, my throat’s a little sore, but it’s okay.”  He handed the batarang to Batman.  Batman inspected the weapon and found no traces of blood on the sharpened edge.”

Batman was starting to get just as confused.  “The way your head snapped back.  I was sure he hit you in the head.  Where did he hit you?”

Red Robin cocked his head in the method adopted by all the past and present Robins.  “He?  You mean you didn’t…Of course.  Nice shot, Robin.”  He turned, grabbing the weapon out of Batman’s hand and returning it to its rightful owner.  “But like I said, try the radio next time.”

As Robin hesitantly took the batarang and replaced it in its pouch, Red Robin turned back to Batman.  “He didn’t hit me.”

Batman looked unconvinced.  “Then why did your head snap back like that?”

Red Robin smiled, “He pinned my cape to the ground.  I almost choked myself when I took one step too far.  Okay, Nightwing, you’re right, the cape is too long.  At least I have a nice hole now as a guide to start my alterations.”

A small voice chimed in from the outside of the conversation, sounding sad and scared, “I wasn’t trying to hit him, just to get him to stop before he got to the building.  You did the same thing to Nightwing.”

Nightwing spoke up, “He has a point, Batman.”

Batman closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  He had been wrong, but it wasn’t in Batman’s nature to admit wrongdoing, even to his junior partners.  However, he knew this little incident was reinforcing Damian’s feelings of inadequacy, voiced such a short time ago.  _Now isn’t the time for these emotions, not in uniform.  No matter how tonight goes, we’re getting that extra night off tomorrow.  I have to find a way to make this okay._

“You’re all right: yes, he does have a point; yes, your cape is too long; yes, we have radios for a reason; yes, I believe you were not trying to intentionally take Red Robin’s head off.  However, why did you not throw it in front of him, like I did with Nightwing?”

Robin was a bit confused.  _Is he actually going to be reasonable about this?_   “Look at my vantage point.  Look at all the trees and light poles.  At the rate Red Robin was moving, I didn’t have a good enough angle to safely get it in front of him without running the risk of hitting him.  The cape was a safer option.  If I aimed right, then exactly what happened is the end result.  If I missed, the batarang goes safely behind him, and he hears the clatter and is warned in exactly the same way.  I didn’t want to hurt him, I didn’t try to hurt him.  Like you said, I could have taken his head off, if I wanted to, but I don’t want to.”  Robin sputtered to a stop, hoping it was enough.  _Why didn’t I just use the radio?_

Batman got up and stood behind Robin, then kneeled down to look through his vantage point.  Robin flinched away from the large, imposing figure, expecting some sort of punishment.  All three older vigilantes saw the flinch and felt their hearts drop into their stomachs at the pain and hurt inherent in the involuntary gesture.  Unable to adequately address the situation as Batman, he stated, “You’re right, this is a terrible angle for a precision shot, but at least we had the most precise person in the family in the right place to make the right decision.  I…I apologize, Robin.”  Batman returned to his previous spot, Nightwing giving him a glare that said, ‘you’re not through with this, not by a long shot.’  Batman couldn’t disagree.

A truck pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse, returning the Bat-family to vigilante mode.  A small army of armed men poured out of the back and opened fire on the warehouse.  Return fire erupted from inside the building, causing the attackers to seek what cover they could find.  Out of the passenger seat of the truck, the Penguin waddled to cover, directing his troops.

Batman was deep in thought, and mumbled to himself, “Two-Face and The Penguin, so this is the secret, underground gang war I’ve heard rumors about.  This informant has earned a lot of leeway tonight.”

Nightwing stared slack-jawed at the firefight before him and leaned over to Batman to be heard over the din.  “You knew this was coming?”

Leaning back, he said, “Not to this extent, no.  I did know there were going to be two players here tonight, but not that there would be an all-out gang war.”

Red Robin tapped Batman’s shoulder and pointed to the back of the warehouse.  A black SUV was pulling up to the rear loading bay, ready for a quick getaway.  At the front of the building, Penguin’s men were getting ready to enter the structure, having obviously driven Two-Face’s henchmen deeper into the building.

Batman called a huddle to lay out his hastily drawn up plan.  “Nightwing, Red Robin, you wait until the gunmen enter the building, then take The Penguin.  If I know him, he won’t enter the building until all the shooting is over.  It looks like Two-Face is preparing to make his escape through the back of the building.  Robin and I will take him.  Move, now.”

The quartet of crime fighters split off to take care of their assignments.  Robin followed in Batman’s wake, still feeling like the third wheel, even in a four-man team.  Before they were halfway to the vehicle, Two-Face came running out of the building.  The driver opened the door, allowing the criminal to jump into the back seat.  He then closed the door and ran to the driver’s seat to make their escape.

“Robin, hurry!  Go for the tires, I’ll take out the driver.”

Nodding, Robin veered off to his left and approached the vehicle at full speed from the passenger side.  He pulled out a knife and launched himself into a slide that took him under the front bumper of the SUV.  Two quick slashes as he slid by left both front tires quickly deflating.  Coming out from under the vehicle, Robin used the last of his momentum to roll into a crouch next to the front of the vehicle.  He looked up in time to see Batman launch himself from a sprint feet-first through the windshield and into the driver, knocking the defenseless hood out cold instantly.

Still mostly inside the vehicle, Batman went mostly unseen by the two-tone terror as he stood up through the vehicle’s sunroof.  However, Two-Face spotted Robin immediately and drew his twin .45’s, one chrome plated, the other flat black, and aimed them at the Boy Wonder.

Robin’s eyes grew wide under his mask as the pistols tracked his movements.  In a fluid motion, he launched himself backwards while pulling out a batarang and throwing it at the former District Attorney.  He didn’t see the weapon make contact with the criminal’s right hand as he rolled away, but the batarang broke three of Two-Face’s fingers and launched the chrome plated gun into the night.  Cursing profanely, in a manner that no eleven year old boy should hear, Two-Face opened fire with his remaining pistol, rapidly emptying the clip as Robin rolled and dove for cover.

As he reached for a fresh magazine, Two-Face had the pistol kicked out of his grasp by Batman.  Enraged, Batman hauled the criminal out of the sunroof by the lapels of his double-breasted suit and slammed him on the roof of the SUV, dazing the man.

A low moan could be heard coming from behind the crates where Batman knew Robin had taken cover.  Fear gripped his heart at the prospect of his youngest son bleeding out in a warehouse parking lot because he couldn’t disentangle himself from the vehicle’s shattered windshield quick enough.  Batman turned back to the criminal laying on the roof of the car, starting to regain his senses.  He quickly kneeled over the bifurcated bad guy and pounded him into unconsciousness, making sure to apply equal punishment to both sides of his scarred face.  He punched the man long after the SWAT team arrived to clean up the remaining gunmen.  Only when Nightwing pulled Batman off the clearly defeated criminal did Batman stop his assault.

“Easy there, big guy.  I think he’s had enough,” Nightwing quipped, “What brought that on?”

Batman didn’t want to think about what was waiting for him behind the crates, but one word, thick with emotion not usually found in the Caped Crusader, leaked out, “Robin.”

He pulled himself away from the younger vigilante and walked over to the crates.  When he was two steps from the boxes, Robin stood up and wiped dust from his uniform.  Seeing Batman standing there, silently appraising the Boy Wonder, Robin began to wonder what he had done wrong this time.

“Batman, I called the Commissioner and asked him to send the SWAT team out.  I told him it was a Four-Bat emergency.  He obviously got the message out quickly, since they’re here already.  Assuming that Nightwing and Red Robin kept up their part, this should…What?”

Batman stared at his son, a slight quiver, unnoticeable to all who were not related to the Bat in some way, shook his lower lip.  “You…You’re…You’re not…You’re okay?”

Robin looked to Nightwing for help, but the man just shrugged.  “I’m fine, Father.  I think I might have skinned my elbow sliding under the car, but I’m…”

Robin was cut off as Batman swept him up into a crushing hug.  If he didn’t know better, Robin would have sworn he saw a tear leak out from under the cowl, but he knew better.  Batman didn’t cry, not in uniform, and definitely not on patrol.

Batman took a deep, shaky breath, and said, “He was shooting at you, and I heard you moaning.  I thought…I though he got you.”

“I’m fine, Father,” The boy repeated in a whisper.

Batman hugged his son tighter and was quiet for a minute.  _He’s fine.  I didn’t lose him.  I can’t lose him._

After another minute, Batman leaned back to look Robin in the face, unwilling to put him down or let go in any way just yet.  “Why were you moaning, then?”

Robin looked down as he replied, “Pen…Agent A gets mad when I come back with a damaged uniform that he has to fix.  Two-Face shot a bunch of holes in my cape, and I ripped my tunic sliding under the car.  He’s going to be really upset with me now.  He told me not to rip any more uniforms, he made me promise to be more careful while on patrol.  Now I just made extra work for him.”

Batman let out a sharp laugh of relief.  He felt there was nothing funny about the situation, but the release of pent up tension caused him some joy.

Red Robin walked up and said, “Batman, the commissioner is here.  He wants to talk to you before they wrap it up.”  He saw that Batman was just putting Robin down and leaned over to Nightwing, “Did I miss something here?”

Nightwing leaned back, “I’ll explain it later, but I think all is forgiven for earlier.”

Batman looked over his youngest son once again, feeling too lucky that the boy wasn’t shot full of holes.  “I have to go talk to the Commissioner, wait for me by the…Wait a minute.  Did you say a ‘Four-Bat Emergency’?”

Robin looked down as he scuffed a hole in the dirt with the toe of his boot.  “Yeah.  Well, there are four of us here, what else am I going to call it.”

Batman chuckled as he walked away, shaking his head at the ingenuity of his children.

As Batman left, the past and current Robins walked to the Batmobile to wait.  Nightwing said, “You know, Robin, I think I’m jealous of you now.”

Robin looked up and asked, “Why’s that?”

Nightwing gave a bright smile and said, “Because you get Bat-hugs.  He never did that for the rest of us.”

“He only did that because he thought Two-Face shot me and he was checking me for bullet holes,” Robin tried to rationalize.

As they stopped beside the car, Nightwing grabbed Robin’s shoulders and said in a serious tone, “You sure about that?”

Red Robin, just hearing for the first time how close Robin came to being ventilated, grabbed the boy’s cape and held it up to examine it.  “Are you sure he didn’t get you?  There are six bullet holes in this cape; most of which should have corresponding holes in your back.”

Robin turned around, pulling the fabric out of his brother’s grasp with his movement, “It was evasive maneuvers; the cape was moving all over the place.  Believe me, I don’t want to get shot again.”  A shudder ran through his small body as he remembered the feeling of the Flamingo’s bullets tearing into his back a little less than a year ago.

Nightwing was having the same memory.  “I’m glad you were faster this time, little brother.”

Batman returned, having finished with the Commissioner.  “Good work tonight.”  He opened the Batmobile to allow Robin and himself to enter.  “By the way, you two owe Robin and me dinner.”

Nightwing put his hands on his hips, “Nu-uh.  Tonight doesn’t count; we were all working from the same tip.  It has to be different tips from different sources.  Besides, the busts went down simultaneously.  How can we judge who got caught first?”

Batman replied as he was closing the door to the car, “Simple, I told the Commissioner to have his men write up the report on Two-Face first.  That was the agreement, whichever report is time stamped earliest.  Good night.”

It was a quiet ride back to the cave.  No words needed to be passed between father and son to explain how their dynamic had shifted during the night.  They both knew.  They both felt the adjustment.  Everything that needed to be said was being communicated through the large, black gauntleted hand, holding the smaller, green gauntleted hand over the center console for the length of the return trip to the Batcave.

 

**A/N:  I really think this could have been two stories, but for some reason I put them together into one.  I hope the differences weren’t too jarring.  The original idea came to me when I woke up on the fifteenth.  My mind works in strange ways, and as such my first thought on waking up that Sunday morning was _Beware the Ides of March._   I couldn’t just leave it alone, and it morphed into this.  I meant to post this that same day, but I had to work, and I didn’t get it finished for another two weeks.**

**Thanks for the support.  It’s always nice to read the reviews or see when I get new likes and favorites.**

**Standard Disclaimer:  I don’t own any of the characters, yadda yadda yadda.**


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